


The Devil’s Letters

by Yulicia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), Descriptions of Blood, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Paperwork as an antagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 07:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21490732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yulicia/pseuds/Yulicia
Summary: Crowley brushed errant papers away and threw himself dramatically onto his sofa. “I hate this.”Aziraphale smiled in sympathy. “I know, my dear, though you really do only have yourself to blame. Why don’t I help you?”“You want to fill out reports?”“Well, no, it’s not a want. My standards of what I want is a lot higher than form 12A,” said Aziraphale. “But I wish to help nevertheless.”(Crowley, newly fired, finds himself saddled with all of the overdue paperwork he put off completing while in Hell’s employ. Aziraphale helps.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 145





	The Devil’s Letters

Crowley awoke to the sound of someone pounding on his front door at the bright and early hour of ten thirty in the morning. This immediately created some issues. This was due to two facts: 

  1. The humans in this building, and in fact humans in general, could not see Crowley’s front door. It existed outside of the realms of humanity. To them, the door to the demons humble abode appeared as nothing more than a locked broom closet. 

  1. Therefore only a supernatural being could be the one knocking. This also posed some problems as the only supernatural being Crowley was still on good terms with - that being the angel Aziraphale - was currently in Germany for the weekend looking at a dusty old tome or something. Crowley hadn’t quite been listening to the specifics. 

So, this was a problem. Crowley had an unspecified but likely hostile non-human entity knocking on his front door on a blasted Sunday morning. 

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, weighing his options. None of them looked good.

The knocking grew more insistent. 

“Alright, coming!” Crowley yelled, schooling his voice into a tone more casual than he felt. 

Crowley reluctantly made his way to the door and mentally made a note to ask Aziraphale for more holy water one of these days. The knocking did not stop. Crowley moved to open the door, treating it as if it would burn him if he did. He ripped the door open in one fell swoop and came face to face with…

“Dagon?” 

Standing on the other side was the Master of Torments and Lord of the Files (they were very proud of that one) looking terribly bored. 

“Traitor,” Dagon greeted. 

“What in Satan’s name are you doing here?” Crowley snapped. “I thought I was supposed to be left alone.”

“Yes, and you will be,” said Dagon. “Trust me, Beelzebub’s upholding that request well and proper. It’s really pissing Hastur off, not being able to get his hands ‘round your neck for what you did to Ligur, by the way. They’ve already had a row about it twice this month. Really does nothing for morale, you know.” 

“Because it’s already sunshine and roses down there,” Crowley muttered under his breath. Either Dagon didn’t hear him or didn’t care to reply. 

Crowley huffed, leaning against his door frame, arms firmly across his chest.

“I don’t want to be here either, Crawly.”

“Crowley.”

“Whatever,” said Dagon. 

Crowley bit back his original snarky reply. “So, why are you here?” 

Dagon gave a heavy sigh and revealed a worn cardboard box that had certainly seen better days hidden behind their feet. Inside were stacks of papers, some in binders but most just single leaflets dumped in there with no real care, left to crease. “These are for you.”

“Should I ask what’s in there?” 

Dagon snorted. “It’s all of your overdue paperwork.”

Crowley blanched. He felt his stomach drop. He had a feeling the ghosts of procrastination past were about to come back to haunt him. “_ No.” _

“Yup,” said Dagon, picking up the box and thrusting it into Crowley’s arm without warning. 

“Why now?” said Crowley, barely not whining. He peered into the box in his arms. This thing seemed endlessly full of documents. It was like Mary Poppin’s bag, except shit. 

“Since you’re not in Hell’s employment anymore we need to clear out your backlog,” Dagon explained. A smile spread across their lips, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. “Also the higher ups who got you out of all this no longer like you.” 

“Right.”

Crowley dumped the box just inside the front door, the cardboard clattering against the floor with a hard thud. He stared down at the endless abyss of forms and it stared back, taunting him. 

A thought occurred that he could just… not do them? I mean, who was going to come looking for them other than Dagon? 

Dagon turned to leave but spun back suddenly, seeming to forget something. “Oh, right.” 

Dagon’s hand thrust out like a shark in a horror movie, capturing Crowley’s wrist in a vice grip. Crowley hissed against the sudden crunching of his wrist bones. Dagon forced his hand upright and in one swift motion lit their finger with hellfire and traced a hellish symbol along Crowley’s palm. Crowley yelped, feeling the marking burning into his skin. 

“You won’t be leaving this building until that box is empty. You know where to return it. Have fun, traitor.”

And with that Dagon was gone, and the box remained, and Crowley began the worst day of his life. 

* * *

The worst day turned into the worst couple of days, and the worst couple of days turned into the worst week, and the worst week into the worst fortnight. The time spent away from the world outside would not have been so bad if the world outside did not contain Aziraphale and all the places he wanted to spend time with him in and also his Bentley - which was coincidentally one of those places. 

On the subject of Aziraphale, he had returned from Germany on the Monday morning, valued book in hand. He had read through the pages like a man possessed and gently placed it away in his proverbial dragon hoard of a bookshop for safe keeping. Then he had read some more, and then tried to call Crowley to ask him out to lunch. The call had gone to voicemail. 

His calls would continue to go to voicemail for a week, and then two weeks, and then Aziraphale had been away from Crowley for the longest time since the end of the beginning of Armageddon. He began to worry, and then he began to _ really _ worry. 

He made it through almost three weeks before he caved to his anxieties and decided to make his way over to Crowley’s flat. 

See, here’s the thing about friends - particularly the ones who have been in love with you for several centuries - they care about you. They want to see you. They notice when you go missing for a fortnight. 

Aziraphale quickly found Crowley’s apartment number, and found the door because he believed that it would be there. He knocked on the door.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called.

Crowley, who had been engrossed in poorly formatted reports (because what’s more hellish than unclear instructions set to a deadline), didn’t hear the first knock.

Aziraphale knocked again and this time Crowley heard it.

“Are you in there, my dear?”

At the familiar voice Crowley scrambled up from the mess of paper on his sofa, his coffee table, his desk and his floor, and opened the door.

Aziraphale let out a huff of relief. “Oh, good. You’re alive.”

Not the response Crowley was expecting but he’d take it. 

“Yep. Still got all my bits attached, too.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “I tried to call you.”

“Did you?” 

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley hadn’t heard the phone ring at all. He groaned, realising it must be part of whatever it was Dagon did to him.

“May I come in?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley quickly jolted back to reality. “‘Course, angel. Just watch your step.”

“My step?” Aziraphale repeated to himself quietly as crossed the threshold. As soon as he reached the living room he could see why. “Oh.” 

Crowley’s floor was covered in paper and the place positively reeked of Hell. There was a neatly stacked pile of papers on the coffee table that Aziraphale suspected was the finished work. The tower didn’t even remotely compare to the chaos surrounding it.

“Dare I ask?” 

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Hell dropped by - no, I’m alright they weren’t here for anything, well, _ violent _,” said Crowley, seeing Aziraphale’s eyes widen at the mention of his old colleagues. “Dagon dropped off all of my unfinished work.”

Aziraphale baulked. “There’s an awful lot of paper here.”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Aziraphale. Been at the _ Sherlock Holmes _novels again?” Crowley snapped. He immediately regretted his words.

“That was a dull thing to say, wasn’t it?” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley bit his tongue. “A bit.” 

Aziraphale moved towards the mess and crouched down to pick up one of the pieces of paper off the floor. He flipped it over and read the date. 

“Crowley, this is from 793!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

Crowley nodded. “Not the only one, either.”

Aziraphale picked up another report, reading this one too. “This one isn’t even dated!” Aziraphale looked up in horror. “How far back do these go?” 

Crowley shrugged, leaning back against his living room wall. “The Fall, give or take a couple of years. ‘Course they’re not all that old - I wasn’t very busy before the Earth showed up.” Crowley paused. “At least not busy doing anything recordable.” 

“How long have you been at this?” 

Crowley tapped his fingers against the wall in thought. “Dagon showed up the Sunday you were in Germany. How was that, by the way?”

Aziraphale waved a hand absentmindedly. “It was fine, my dear. Don’t change the subject.”

Aziraphale looked pointedly at him. He gestured to the neat tower on the table. “Is this what you’ve completed?”

“Yup.”

“Have you been at this the _whole_ time?”

“Yup.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “I thought it would be bigger, somehow.” 

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” 

Aziraphale gave him a look between disappointment and fondness. It was a weird look. “Be serious.” Then Aziraphale gave him a look of sympathy. “You must be exhausted.”

Crowley’s chest felt warm all of a sudden. “It’s just paperwork, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, I know. That is precisely why you must be exhausted.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with an idea. It wasn’t quite the look he got whenever someone brought up magic but it was certainly close.

“Why don’t we go to lunch? Take your mind off this for a bit?” 

Crowley shifted. “About that…”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and suddenly his hands were waving. “We don’t have to, of course, it was only a suggestion, just that it has been simply ages since we last saw each other— “

“Three weeks.”

“— and I thought it might be nice to get away for a bit. You don’t have to accept—“

Crowley held up a hand to shush him and Aziraphale’s jaw snapped shut. “Wanting is not an issue.” Crowley held out his palm, facing the sigil carved there towards Aziraphale. “This is.”

Aziraphale was by him in a flash, cradling Crowley’s palm ever so gently in his own soft, well-manicured hands. Aziraphale ran a thumb over the red carving, drawing back with a hiss and the residual hellfire stung him. 

“Careful,” Crowley warned. 

“What did they do to you?” Aziraphale’s eyes were pleading, and very close, and very blue. Crowley momentarily forgot his words. 

“Uh, just a lockdown spell or something. I can’t leave the flat until all of these reports are filled.” 

Aziraphale grew stormy, his brow pinched together and lips downturned. “They were supposed to leave you alone.” His thumb ran over his palm once more, though this time Aziraphale was careful to avoid the carving. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” said Crowley. “No. I barely feel it, actually. Just I can’t, you know,” Crowley gestured vaguely. “Lunch.”

A slight smile returned to Aziraphale’s lips. “That’s alright, my dear.” Aziraphale brought a hand up to trace along Crowley’s jaw. Crowley almost melted into goo. “We have all the time in the world.” 

Aziraphale paused in thought, peering across the mess of paper.

“Maybe it’s best this gets finished sooner rather than later. Can’t have you wasting away in here,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley brushed errant papers away and threw himself dramatically onto his sofa, flinging an arm over his eyes. “I hate this.”

Aziraphale smiled in sympathy. “I know, my dear, though you really do only have yourself to blame.” 

Crowley uncovered his eyes long enough to give Aziraphale a pointed stare. Aziraphale was unphased by it, as usual. 

“Why don’t I help you?” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley swung his arm out and let it his the sofa with a dull thwap, uncovering his eyes. “You want to fill out reports?” 

“Well, no, it’s not a want. My standards of what I _ want _ is a lot higher than form 12A,” said Aziraphale. “But I wish to help nevertheless.” 

Crowley stared slack jawed. He then shrugged, and moved the paper stack on the sofa to the floor, clearing a space for Aziraphale. It occurred to Crowley that this was not the way he had expected Aziraphale’s visit to go. 

Aziraphale took a seat beside him, sitting as rigidly in it as an obedient child in a posh school would at a classroom desk. Perhaps not surprisingly, there were a lot of similarities in the decorum expected of rich private school children and those expected of angels in Heaven. 

Aziraphale picked up a pile of documents and moved them to his lap, pulling his reading glasses - which he didn’t actually need to read so, really, just his glasses - from his coat pocket and perching them on his nose. Crowley always could never decide if the spectacles were fetching or ridiculous, though this was a conundrum most of Aziraphale’s fashion choices put him in. 

“Uh, do you know how to fill one of these out?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, my dear. I have had experience doing your demonic work, you know.”

Crowley paused at the implication. “Did you… did you do paperwork every time you did one of my temptations?”

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

Aziraphale looked at him then. “Because I thought you had been doing it for all your other temptations.” Aziraphale gave a slow and very deliberate look at the mess in front of him. “Clearly I was mistaken.” 

Crowley frowned. “I sent reports to head office _ sometimes _. Just, you know, not consistently.” 

Aziraphale hadn’t looked up from the papers in his lap. The pen that had miraculously appeared in his hand was flicking at the paper as he spoke. “I can see that.” 

Aziraphale held out the paper he had been writing on. “There, one down.” 

Crowley took the paper from him, looking down at it. “Temptation of a lawman, Rome 117,” Crowley squinted at the description further down. “What did you write in the brief?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Whatever came to mind. Somehow I suspect Dagon isn’t going to be reading all of these.”

Crowley smirked, filled with a familiar fondness. “We’ll make a demon out of you yet, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale winced. “Best not.” 

Crowley felt the heaviness of the terrible feeling you’ve said something wrong. “You’re right, black wouldn’t suit you.”

“Nor boils and cysts, I’d imagine.”

“Hey, we’re not all covered in sores,” said Crowley. “Am I covered in sores?”

“No, you’re perfectly handsome, my dear.”

“See, it’s not all doom and gloo—“ Crowley stopped, Aziraphale’s words suddenly registering. “You think I’m handsome?” 

“This cannot be a revelation to you,” said Aziraphale. “It is a fact as clear as the sky is blue or as obviously true as water is wet.”

“Uh,” said Crowley intelligently. Thankfully he was saved from dwelling on those words and, more importantly, answering them, by Aziraphale handing him another completed report. 

“Ah, Egypt 22 AD. Nice place, very warm,” said Crowley, taking the report. 

He had been in Egypt very briefly for only a couple of temptations but remembered it fondly. There was nothing quite like the beating summer sun to warm his scales.

Looking over, Aziraphale was flying through the reports. He was already halfway through his third. It seems as though Crowley’s biggest mistake prior to the angel’s arrival was trying to remember what had actually happened instead of just taking the easy route of making shit up. 

Crowley picked up a stack of papers for himself, leafing through them. He pulled out a file and read the title that was, naturally, written in comic sans and coloured a disgustingly bright fuschia. 

“Cardiff, 1789. Temptation of a Baron,” Crowley wondered aloud. It occurred to him that he had no memory of doing that temptation. “Aziraphale, was this one I gave you?”

Aziraphale looked up from his paper. “Pardon?”

“1789, tempted some inexperienced Baron into trying his hand at architecture. Did we rock-paper-scissors that one?” 

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. “It sounds familiar.” There was the faintest patch of red blush growing across his cheeks. 

“This one slip you by, huh?” Crowley waved the paper, allowing himself to be a little smug. 

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “Of sorts.”

Crowley raised his brow, looking at Aziraphale intently. The angel would not meet his eye. 

“I, uh, I… I may have forgotten to do that one,” Aziraphale confessed.

“What?!” 

“To be fair, I didn’t do my miracle either!” Aziraphale yelped defensively. The experience was quickly growing mortifying. “Just, there was a lovely little coffeehouse that had just opened and the owner was so nice and I got so wrapped up in it that I, um, I forgot. By the time I remembered why I was there the Baron was gone and the child didn’t need my miracle anymore. Oh, Crowley, will you stop looking at me like that!” 

Crowley, on the other hand, was absolutely giddy. “I can’t believe you never told me. What a naughty angel you’ve been.” 

“Oh, come off it, like you never skipped a miracle of mine before!” Aziraphale was positive beet red at this point.

“Not a single one,” said Crowley, endlessly milking the situation. “Figured Heaven would find out if I didn’t.”

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. “They wouldn’t have cared. They weren’t checking up on what I was doing. They lost interest sometime in the 15th century. Heaven hadn’t been interested in what humanity was doing until Armeggedon.” 

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Crowley.” Aziraphale muttered. “I had rather hoped you’d never find out.” 

Crowley was too busy laughing to be upset at Aziraphale. “You’ll just have to make it up to me.”

“And what atonement would you suggest?”

Crowley hummed. “I’ll get back to you at that one. For now, you can continue helping with these.” He gestured to the pile of reports which thankfully now had a slightly larger completed stack. “You might have to make something up for this one. It _ was _ your temptation after all.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, alright, give it here.” 

Crowley passed the form to Aziraphale, swapping it with the report that Aziraphale shoved into his hands as he did. 

“That one is done - tempted of a young lady into Witchcraft, 1605,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, yeah, I remember that one,” Crowley mused. “I let her see the future. She was no Agnes Nutter, of course, but I did let her see into next week, just far enough to see her lover with another woman.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That’s terrible.”

Crowley waved his hand in response. “Wasn’t so bad. She was married the next year to a much better man - one with a pretty hefty fortune if I remember correctly.”

“And the man?” Aziraphale asked.

“No idea. My bet’s on gambled his meager earnings away or drunk himself to death - that’s usually how these sorts of things end anyway.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. “How tragic.” 

Aziraphale turned to the next report as Crowley turned to his. With the pair of them they were making remarkably fast work of these things and the completed pile grew taller and thicker by the minute. Crowley, who had previously been struggling to give enough of a shit to actually write something down, found he worked faster with Aziraphale. It was grounding to hear the scratch of Aziraphale’s pen beside him and whether he’d admit it or not he may be in silent competition with the angel. 

At around 11 o’clock in the evening the pair had made it through almost ninety percent of the reports. The completed pile stood much taller than it had to start with and had even begun to migrate towards the floor, having grown precarious.

“May I ask you something, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, breaking what had been a twenty minute long silence.

“Anything, angel.”

Several thoughts rocketed through Crowley’s head at the question. His heart did a little nervous dance in his chest at the uncertainty of it. 

However, it turns out he needn’t have worried as Aziraphale’s question was merely, “Do you keep bottles of anything here?” 

Crowley hummed. “‘Course I do.” 

“Would you be a dear and fetch one?” said Aziraphale. “I do think a small break is in order.”

Crowley, often swayed by Aziraphale’s whims and his persuasive requests, clicked his fingers and found a bottle of Arcadian Shiraz (London Wine Competition gold winner 2018!) in his hand, alongside two wine glasses. 

“Ah, splendid!” said Aziraphale, taking one of the glasses from Crowley’s hand. 

Crowley threaded the stem of his own glass between his fingers, balancing it carefully as he opened the bottle. With a flourish the bottle was opened and the Shiraz was poured generously into both glasses. 

Crowley took a drink of the wine and found it unsurprisingly pleasant. It wasn’t the best wine he’d ever had (the best ones were often stored in Aziraphale’s bookshop) but it would certainly do. He flung an arm across the back of the sofa and sprawled into the corner, folding one leg underneath him. On the other side Aziraphale had relaxed minutely, now at least sitting against the back cushions instead of hovering. 

“You never told me how your trip went,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale jolted. “Oh, I suppose I hadn’t, had I?” He took a sip of his wine. “It was very boring, my dear, there’s not much to talk about.”

“I’d still like to hear about it.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Any tale of my travels would be sure to bore you, but I concede. The flight was uneventful, the book’s owner smelled of mothballs, and I stopped for a lovely donauwelle before coming home.”

“You’re right, that was boring.” 

Aziraphale reached over gave him a playful swat on the arm. “Then you shouldn’t have pestered me for it.”

Crowley only laughed and returned to his wine. The pair drank in comfortable and companionable silence for some time before dipping into a trip down memory lane as the topic of temptations and miracles came up. Aziraphale had not spoke often of the miracles Heaven had had him perform before now (claiming them boring) but with a bottle of wine down and feeling the warmth of good booze and good company, the conversation flowed.

As they drank and spoke they found themselves drawing ever closer and closer. By the time a second bottle had been drunk their arms were pressed against one another and Aziraphale had bucked up the courage to dip his head against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley, who often tended to short circuit when such things occurred, had this time instead smoothly rest his own cheek against the fluff of Aziraphale’s hair. 

They sat like that for what felt to them like hours before one of them spoke. 

“We should probably get back to it,” said Crowley, though his heart wasn’t in it.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement but made no attempt to move away. In fact, he only seemed to shift closer, the press against Crowley’s side growing heavier.

“On second thought,” said Crowley. “The rest can wait for a bit.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

* * *

The pair woke to the sun rising the next morning. They were both as surprised as each other to have slept at all. The two were still tangled together, awash in the early morning sunlight streaming from one of the open windows. 

Crowley reluctantly pulled himself away and stood, running a hand through his hair. “Coffee?” He asked. 

Aziraphale blinked blearily, running a hand along his coat front, smoothing out the wrinkles that often came from sleeping in ones clothes. “Could I bother you for tea instead?”

“That you can,” Crowley said, already dipping into the kitchen to start his coffee machine for his own cup. “Preference?” 

“Darjeeling, if you’ve got it.”

Crowley, who kept a stock of all the things the angel had taken a preference to, most certainly did. “I do.”

He set about making the beverages, preferring to make them the regular human way. Aziraphale had always claimed that miracled food never tasted right and on this Crowley was inclined to agree. He could always taste the demonic touch in his miracled coffees and sulphur did absolutely nothing to add to the flavour profile of anything. 

Crowley left Aziraphale’s tea to steep and went to add sugar, milk and a touch of cream to his own coffee. He had a taste for very few things on Earth but those very few things were always sweet. 

As he was adding the cream Aziraphale wandered in and took his cup from the counter. He took a sip and hummed happily. 

“This is lovely. Thank you, my dear.” 

Crowley, who hated being thanked but figured he could concede to gratitude over _ tea, _simply smiled.

“How much work is left, do you think?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Ten, maybe twenty more pages? We made it through most of it yesterday.” 

“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Will Dagon be by to pick them up?”

Crowley snorted. “No, of course not. Bastard wouldn’t do me any sort of favour.” He paused suddenly in thought. There was a glint of mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Although…” His smile grew wide. “Could you do me a favour?” 

Aziraphale raised a brow. “What would this favour be, exactly?”

“I need you to go to the butchers down the road and ask for six pints of sheep’s blood and a whole fish.”

There was hesitation on Aziraphale’s face, as if he was fighting an internal war. “I suppose I could do that.” 

“Great!” said Crowley. “While you’re out I’ll finish up the rest.” 

Aziraphale finished his tea and left the mug on the counter. He straightened out his coat, tugging at his collar. “I do hope you’re not making me complicit in anything… _ demonic. _”

“Well…” Crowley started. Aziraphale gave him a look. “It’s nothing you’re not going to enjoy.”

Aziraphale went to make his way out the door. 

“If you say so.” 

Crowley watched the angel leave. “Don’t forget the fish!”

He turned to the paperwork, a fire lit in his belly. These remaining reports would be the fastest ones he’d ever filled. 

* * *

About an hour later Aziraphale returned with the things he’d asked for.

Aziraphale handed the bag of blood and fish to Crowley as soon as he saw him. He seemed desperate to get rid of the package. Crowley looked as though he couldn’t have been more delighted to receive it. 

“They gave me a very strange look when I asked for this,” said Aziraphale. “Then they asked me if I knew you. Crowley, have you done this before?”

Crowley shrugged. “Once or twice - had to call in some favours a few years ago.”

Crowley took the blood out of the bag and then pointed to his throne chair. “Could you move that back a bit?”

Aziraphale did as he was asked. The legs of the chair scraped along the floor but didn’t dare scratch the tiling. 

As soon as the chair was gone Crowley opened one of the jars of sheep blood and began to pour it out onto the floor.

“Oh, good lord,” came Aziraphale’s voice from beside him.

He made a circle with the blood and then reached for a second jar, dipping his fingers into it. He coated them generously and then crouched over the circle, sketching the summoning sigil details into the middle. 

“Is this necessary?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked up, eyes playing innocent. His glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed them back up. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s just—“ Aziraphale paused and winced. “You have blood on your nose.”

Crowley swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, trying to rub it off. Instead, however, the smear only grew bigger. Aziraphale looked pained watching him. 

“That better?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not even a little bit. Allow me,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. 

Aziraphale bent down and lifted Crowley’s chin up gently, scrubbing at the spot. Crowley wrinkled his nose, but leaned into the touch nevertheless. 

“All better,” said Aziraphale, stepping back. He looked at the circle. “What’s this for exactly?”

“Demon summoning circle,” said Crowley.

“Ah. That explains why it is so… grotesque.

Crowley threw the fish into the middle of the circle. It hit the ground with a wet flop. Aziraphale cringed. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

There was a cheeky smile beaming across Crowley’s face. “Why not?” 

Aziraphale’s only answer was a fond look of exasperation. 

Crowley stepped back from the circle, checking over his handy work. He clapped his hands together, miracling away the blood. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He lit one.

“Might want to step back, angel,” he warned.

Aziraphale jolted and moved behind Crowley. As soon as he had moved Crowley threw the match into the middle of the circle and the blood ignited, creating a trail of hellfire along Crowley’s otherwise nicely tiled floor.

“Dagon, Master of Torments and Lord of the Files, I call upon thee,” said Crowley.

There was a flash of fire and suddenly there was someone standing inside the circle. As the smoke cleared Dagon was there, looking terribly disoriented. Dagon moved against the restraints of the circle, straining against invisible bonds. 

“What in Satan’s name…?” Dagon looked to the man who had summoned them. “_ You. _” 

“Hey,” said Crowley with a grin and a smug wave. Crowley moved to grab the box of completed reports. “Got something for you.”

“You summoned me for _ this?! _” Dagon hissed. “You could have just left them by the door!”

“Yeah, but that’s no fun.”

Dagon glared at him. “You are such as asshole, Crowley.”

“You started it.”

Dagon held out their arms. “Fine. Give them here.”

Crowley couldn’t be rid of the box fast enough. Dagon peered behind Crowley.

“You,” said Dagon, catching Aziraphale’s eye. “Featherbrain. What are you doing here? Not here to smite me for my wickedness are you?”

Aziraphale frowned at the insult. He was already deeply unimpressed with the demon, recognising Dagon from Crowley’s trial. He went to reply but Crowley cut him off. 

“He’s my guest, Dagon, be nice.”

“Fuck off,” grumbled Dagon. “Hanging around with an angel, are you? I’d heard rumours but…. Satan, you really have gone native. This’ll keep Hell’s gossip quota filled for _ weeks _.” 

Dagon looked at the pair. “So, how does that work with the, you know,” Dagon made a crude gesture by forming a circle with one hand and thrusting the pointer finger on their other hand in and out of it, “Stuff? Holy and hellish mixtures tend to explode.” 

A flush kept up both of their necks. Aziraphale fidgeted and Crowley was eternally thankful for his sunglasses. 

“That’ll remain my little secret, Dagon,” said Crowley. 

“Oh, you’d better not be an angel,” Dagon groaned. “Gabriel better not have, ugh, _ redeemed _ you.”

“Don’t worry, still a demon,” said Crowley as Aziraphale muttered, “That’s not Gabriel’s department.” 

Dagon was growing more and more fidgety, struggling harder against the bonds. “Great. Superb. Can I go now?”

“Sure,” said Crowley. He held out his hand, showing Dagon the carving on his palm. “Get rid of this first though, would you?” 

Dagon clicked their fingers and the skin on Crowley’s hand healed, returning to it’s unmarked form. Crowley felt weight lift from him, like a prisoner freed from his shackles.

“Oh, I felt that,” said Aziraphale a little breathlessly. His hand rest gently over his chest.

Crowley raised a brow. He spun around to look at Aziraphale. “Really?” 

“It was like the clouds opening to the sun on a rainy day,” said Aziraphale. 

“Aw, aren’t you two sweet,” Dagon mocked. “Crowley. Circle. _ Now.” _

“Alright, alright, don’t blow a gasket on me,” said Crowley.

“Hope I never see you again, traitor.” 

Crowley gave a cruel smile as he released Dagon from the circle’s bonds. “The feeling is mutual.” 

Dagon began to dissolve into ooze, seeping back into the floor. Just before their being had left Earth they spoke, “Watch out for Hastur. Beelzebub won’t be able to hold him back forever.” 

The room fell silent as Dagon disappeared. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “What an unpleasant individual.” 

Crowley snorted. “You could say that again.”

Crowley always felt a little shaken after meetings with denizens of Hell, old paranoia creeping back in. He appreciated Aziraphale’s presence grounding him. 

“Well, now that that’s over,” said Crowley. “Does your invitation for lunch still stand?”

Aziraphale smiled, warm and fond. “Need you ask?”

“No, but it’s nice to hear you say it.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’ll always wish to spend time with you, my dear, of course it stands.” 

Crowley’s heart fluttered - a terribly undemonic thing for it to be doing. He held out his hand, inviting Aziraphale to take it. Aziraphale threaded his fingers through Crowley’s, his warm hand stark against Crowley’s cold one. 

“Lead the way, angel.”

Free of paperwork, and of otherworldly troubles, the pair did what they did best. 

They went to lunch. 

**Author's Note:**

> hello pls talk to me about good omens i'm @yulicia_ on [twitter](https://twitter.com/yulicia_)


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